


Misery Loves Company, Company Loves Booze

by desolesoleil



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dark Comedy, Gen, Oneshot, complaining, i dont know how to tag this, past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 21:32:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12093852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desolesoleil/pseuds/desolesoleil
Summary: Grantaire invites Floréal over to get trashed and bitterly complain about life. Hilarity and depression ensue.(content/trigger warnings in notes)edit 2/5 2018: changed the cats name to Penelope





	Misery Loves Company, Company Loves Booze

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS:
> 
> alcohol, alcoholism, implied suicidal ideation, brief drug (ab)use

“Jesus H. Christ.”  
“Not quite.” Grantaire could almost see Floréal rolling her eyes through the phone.  
“What the fuck do you want?” It wasn’t a question, as much a demand.  
“I want to talk-“  
“Oh wonderful, you’re great at that. Goodbye Grantaire...”  
“-wait no don’t hang up, this isn’t a booty call.”  
She sighed. “I broke up with you three months ago.”  
“Can you really call it breaking up?” he mumbled. “It’s not like we were doing anything but-“  
“Okay! I’m hanging up now.”  
“No, hold on a minute, I swear this isn’t about sex.”  
“Then get to the fucking point. My break is over in ten minutes, and I’m not exactly keen on spending the rest of it talking to your sorry ass.”  
“Come over tonight and commiserate with me.”  
She didn’t answer. He sounded pathetic, and he knew it.  
“Commiserate? What the hell do we have to commiserate about? Bad sex?”  
“I don’t know....I just... I miss....Fuck, just come get drunk with me and complain about life. Or anything.” He wasn’t slurring, but it was fairly obvious that ‘get drunk’ was a plan he had already started.  
She laughed. He had missed her laugh, even when it was at his expense. “This is the worst attempt to get me in bed you’ve ever tried. Goodnight R.”  
“No wait, Wait wait wait- you remember my friend Éponine?”  
“Who?”  
“You know...the hot angry lesbian.”  
“....What about her?”  
“Come over and commiserate and I’ll give you her number.”  
“That is so not fair.”  
“Life isn’t fair Flo.”  
“You want a fuckbuddy who doesn’t even want to fuck you.”  
“Isn’t that just a buddy?”  
Floréal laughed again, and it was like church bells. “Grantaire, that would mean you had friends.”  
“Is that a yes?”  
“I’m off at seven. Try to save me some of whatever motivated you to call me in the first place.”

Floréal knocked on his door at quarter to eight. She was still wearing her work clothes, a button up white shirt with a black tie and black slacks, her frizzy hair in a messy twist. It was unbelievably unfair how good she looked. He opened the door wearing the same thing he’d been wearing for three days.  
“Hey there sexy.”  
She looked him over, from his well loved pajama pants to his heavy bloodshot eyes. “Wow. This was clearly a mistake.”  
He grinned. “C’mon cherie, you know I clean up good.”  
“Yeah, when you clean up.” She pushed past him into the dirty apartment. “And it’s ‘clean up well.’”  
“I know...” he mumbled, closing the door behind her. He waved a scrap of paper bearing Éponine’s phone number in her face. “I’m amazed the promise of ‘Ponine’s number got you here. What happened to that fancy banker?”  
She pushed a stack of half finished books and loose paper to the middle of the couch and sat down. “He wanted me to quit my job, not that it’s any of your business. Where’s Penelope?”  
Grantaire shrugged. “She’s probably hairball-ing on the carpet.” He plopped down next to her. “You turned down a sugar daddy? For minimum wage?”  
She brushed a stray cat hair off her pants. “Plus tips.”  
“Oh, of course, now it makes sense.”  
He poured out two shots of the shitty vodka he’d been ‘enjoying.’ “Do you want a chaser?”  
“I can see how it wouldn’t make a difference to an unemployed loser.” 

 

She took a whiff of the shot and coughed. “What is this shit, rubbing alcohol?”  
He shrugged and passed her a can of diet Sierra Mist that had been waiting for her in his fridge for almost a month.  
“It’s not that bad. It’d be better if you drank it with a real soda.”  
She downed the shot and glared at him as she slammed the glass onto the coffee table. “Asshole.”  
He took the shot he had poured for himself, and grimaced as the vodka burned down into him.  
“Jesus tittyfucking shit.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Oof. It just gets worse.”  
He usually did a good job hiding most signs of drunkenness, but his speech was steadily getting less steady the longer they talked. Floréal wasn’t sure if it was because he was letting down his guard, or if he had finally crossed the point of no return. Grantaire wasn’t sure either.

Floréal looked over his coffee table at the empty bottle of rum and the half finished vodka. A pile of cigarette butts overflowed what she assumed was at one point an ashtray.  
“Jesus, have you been smoking in here? Aren't you afraid of losing your security deposit?”  
“That fucker already took care of that,” he said nodding toward his cat, who was now taking a nap on top of Floréal’s bag.  
He was idly fidgeting with a gift card that had been on the table, tapping it against the wood.  
“So you'll just suck it up and give them more money that you don't have?”  
“I didn't mean for it to become a pattern,” he grumbled.  
“Do you ever?”

She snatched the card from him, and turned it over in her hands, running her finger along the one worn edge. She looked him over again. His eyes looked heavier than she had realized.  
“Wow. Real smart. So? What is it?”  
“It’s just Xanax, relax.” he chuckled. “Relax… fuck, I'm hilarious. I was already coming down when I called you, chill.”  
Floréal wasn't laughing. “Who in their right mind would sell you Xanax?”  
“The pharmacist seemed happy to do it.”  
He pulled a pill bottle out of his pocket and shook it. She grabbed the bottle before he could slip it back in his sweater. Sure enough, his name was on the label.  
He pouted. “I have anxiety Flo.”  
She put the bottle on the armrest next to her. Not taking it away, but deliberately putting it where he couldn’t get to it unnoticed. “I’m suing your psychiatrist for malpractice.”  
“But I DO have anxiety.” He smiled hazily, appreciating his own genius.“It’s just one time.” She looked disappointed.  
“I don’t know why you do this shit to yourself.”  
He wished she was angry.

 

He jokingly punched her shoulder. “This isn’t commiseration, this is an intervention. How’s your mom?”  
She groaned.  
“Oh Jesus.” She paused to look at him sternly. “I’m not letting you off the hook, Grantaire. But oh Jesus, my mom... Bitch came into my work last weekend with her boyfriend and his kid, and he tipped me five bucks on their $50 meal. I don’t think even he noticed it was me serving them.”  
“What a fucking asshole.”  
“Yeah, he’s one of those ‘waitstaff don’t deserve to be seen by eyes in my tax bracket’ types. He wasn’t even my worst customer that day, I had a guy who wanted me to put an engagement ring in his girlfriend’s drink, but she ordered red wine and chipped a tooth, so of course they blamed me and complained to my boss.”  
“What did your boss do?”  
“Gave them free dessert, and gave me a long lunch.”

She leaned back into the couch and sighed. “I’ll be honest, I do miss this.” Penelope was curled up between them, nuzzling her head into Floréal’s arm. “Maybe I just miss your cat.”  
“She misses you too.” He almost added, ‘so do I.’ 

Grantaire put one hand on Penelope’s head and the other on Floréal’s shoulder.  
“Ladies, I’m shitcanned.”  
“Yeah, what the fuck happened to drinking less?”  
He took a sip of his soda. “I have commitment issues.”  
She raised a hand to her mouth in mock surprise.  
“No shit? Really?”  
“Ha ha. But seriously, this mess is revenge.”  
She raised an eyebrow. “Revenge against whom, your liver?”  
He threw his hands up in the air dramatically.  
“I’m in love.” He threw back another shot before pouring one for Floréal, and another for himself.  
“Somehow that doesn’t clarify anything.”

Grantaire put his head in his hands and groaned.  
“G-d I hate him. He’s beautiful and perfect, and he’s so fucking smart, and it pisses me off so much because he’s so stupid and idealistic and he thinks he knows everything, and he almost does which makes it worse, and he frowns at me whenever I’m drunk, and I wish it didn’t make me feel so shitty, and I don’t even know if I want him to love me or hate me, so I’m gonna just drink myself to death and hope it pisses him off but that he cries at Jehan’s heartbreakingly beautiful eulogy.”  
He barely took a breath between words.  
“I’m gonna be honest, that sounds a lot more like a cry for help than revenge.”  
“Thanks for the support.”  
“Who the fuck is this guy, anyway? Please tell me he’s not a bartender.”  
“Ha ha. He’s just....he’s just some guy who’s friends with all my friends. You really do look like you’ve been doing well. I’m glad.” She let him change the subject without comment this time. 

“Yeah right. Some guy on the bus asked if I was a cop.”  
He laughed. “What’d you say?”  
“I told him if I was a cop I wouldn’t be on the fucking bus. What does that even mean? I don’t fucking look like a cop, I look like a waitress.”  
Grantaire shook his head. “No no, he’s right,” he gestured towards her outfit. “It’s the surly look and the tie.”  
“Oh, fuck you. I’d rather look like a cop than a....” She trailed off, unable to find a remark biting enough. 

He laughed again, it came out more bitter than he meant.  
“Nobody banters quite like you, cherie. it really could have been good. Us.” He didn’t look her in the eye. “I’m sorry, Floréal.”  
“I appreciate the sentiment, but you're wrong. It wouldn't have ever worked, not with me at least. You were never going to change for me.” She took a sip of her soda, and he tried to think of something to say.

“I could have. I still could.” The words felt hollow in his mouth.

Floréal shook her head. “You can tell yourself whatever you want. You’ve been saying you'll change since we met, and fuck, if you really did, maybe you could have something real with somebody.”  
She sighed.  
“But you won't do it for yourself, and I don't think there are a lot of people willing to wait for a sign that you give a shit. And you know that.”

He didn’t say anything. His gaze was fixed on the cat, but it was clear he wasn’t really looking at anything.  
“I’m gonna fucking die alone.”  
“Most people do.” She raised her shot glass to toast. “Drink up, you aren't special.”  
He clinked his glass against hers. “To mediocrity.”  
“Speak for yourself. I didn’t say I’m not special.” 

She picked up the bottle of vodka and swirled it around. There were maybe three shots left. “You need to fucking slow down, do you want to puke?”  
“Floréal, nobody wants to puke.”  
She smacks his arm. “You literally made yourself puke all the time when we were together dumbass.”  
“Shut up. I’m not gonna puke. I’m mixing my vodka with vodka, I’m not gonna puke.”  
“What does that even mean?”  
“You know...beer before liquor never been sicker. Except I hate beer, so I guess wine before liquor never been sicker. That’s a true one. You ever thrown up cheap red wine?”  
“Honestly R? I’ve never gotten drunk enough on wine to get anywhere close to vomiting. I’m not a middle aged mom.”  
“You’re missing out. Wine wasted is like sinking into a warm bath. Lightbulbs look like stars. Everything means something. And sometimes you get really horny, and let’s be honest drunk masturbating is pretty great.”  
“You are such a fucking mess.”

She looked down at her phone and swore.  
“I have to leave soon. It’s late.”  
“What? Come on, it’s not that late.”  
“Grantaire, I have work tomorrow, and the busses stop running in twenty minutes.”  
“Spend the night. You can have my bed, it’s not like I haven’t slept on this couch before.”  
“I can’t.”  
“I’ll drive you in the morning.”  
“At 7 am?”  
“Please? I...I don’t...” He looked defeated. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”  
“You gonna kill yourself?”  
He was silent for longer than either of them were comfortable with.  
“I don’t think so.”  
“I have an opening shift. If you’re still alive tomorrow afternoon, I’ll swing by La Musain and you can hide your hungover face in shame while Joly and Bossuet introduce me to the guy you’re madly in love with.”  
“I won’t kill myself if you tell him I’m good in bed. Tell him I have a massive cock.”  
“I won’t let you base a potential relationship on a lie.”  
He threw a pillow at her, missing by a mile. “Get out of my house.”  
“I’m really really trying to.”  
She paused in the doorway. “You know I didn’t mean the no friends thing, right? You have a frankly obnoxious amount of people who care about you.”  
“I don’t deserve any of them.”  
“Probably not. But I think that’s for them to decide.” She threw the pillow back at him. “Get some sleep, loser.”  
As she closed the door behind her she could see him pouring another shot.


End file.
